Identities
by Cheshire
Summary: Born with dragons on their bodies, Aegon and Jon wonder at their impossible seeming soulmates. (Finished)


Aegon VI Targaryen, or Young Griff as many knew him as, was told his soulmark appeared when he was two-already smuggled out of the Red Keep and hidden away for safety as (parts of) Westeros mourned his "tragic death". Normally soulmates were born in places where, someday, they could meet, but for Aegon there was no way for him to know if that meant sailing along the Rhoyne or somewhere in Westeros.

His was an impossible, beautiful mark: A red dragon outlined in pure white with dark grey eyes that people who saw it swore seemed to follow them as they moved. It sat across his chest, it's wings along his shoulders, its head peaking out towards his neck.

In times past, it would have been assumed that such a mark meant he was destined for another Targaryen, yet if it was for his uncle Viserys he would have been born with the mark and it had come in months too early for his aunt Daenerys.

Jon was always nervous about it, Aegon could remember that even when he was younger. He'd stare at it and mutter about impossibilities, about Northern honor and bastard boys. Aegon never worked up the nerve to ask him, though, too worried about what the answer might be.

Instead, he paid attention to how he felt around anyone who could have blood of the dragon, around Lyseni prostitutes and Volantene nobles. Around the few Westerosi he had contact with who could be dragonseed. Never did he feel that draw to them he was told he'd feel. Never did he have a need to get closer, to touch, to break open the dormant connection in their minds.

His advisors suggested he marry Daenerys Targaryen only once-his reaction keeps them from ever mentioning it again.

Jon Snow was born with a soulmark, but he wasn't supposed to show it. He knew from an early age that there was something about his soulmark in particular that scared his father, that made even Lady Stark worry about him, at times.

He never really noticed it, at first, and then one day he did. In the bath he twisted and saw the reflection of a large dark mark on his back and after that spent full minutes trying to get into a position where he could see it without disturbing the water.

It was a huge black dragon, spread across the breadth of his shoulder blades, outlined in red.

Black dragons, he would find out, were even worse than red dragons, which were very, very bad.

Robb knew about it, Jon had few secrets from him, but before Theon arrived Lady Stark had given them a stern talking-to about keeping it from him. It was a very important Family Secret (she had looked pained at that, he remembered, including Jon as family, but it was the best way to get them to take it seriously).

Sansa was the only one he'd ever _told_ about his mark. She'd been going on and on about how romantic soulmarks were and how much she'd wished she'd had one, and he'd let slip that some of them weren't so good. The ensuing debate had led to them sneaking into her room and him removing his tunic, showing off the fearsome creature etched across his back as he explained, haltingly, the basics of what it meant.

Before that, Robb was his best friend, though maybe little Arya was inching towards that place. After that, suddenly he and Sansa were spending so much time together. She thought he was destined for a tragic, star-crossed love affair and, despite her mother's general unease about Jon, Sansa thought they were meant to be friends. After all, _she_ was the romantic sibling and _he_ was the one who would know romance more than any of them.

He didn't really mind it, so much, even if Septa Mordane tried to chase him off at first. Sansa could be very sweet, and their singing voices complemented each other's well, and she didn't really mind when he simply wanted to sit in the quiet. It was also nice to have someone who would mend his clothing without berating him so much.

When she was old enough to realize the _full_ extent of what his mark meant, he thought she was far more depressed about it than he was.

"They can't have all died out, otherwise you wouldn't have that mark," she pointed out, pouting at her half-finished needlework. "Maybe...maybe there's one left in Essos."

"How am _I_ supposed to get to Essos? I'm just a bastard."

She flinched. "Don't say that! You are the son of a great lord! You have the blood of a Stark!"(1) Her lips thinned out, her eyes narrowed, and he cringed back, realizing she was Making A Plan. "Nothing can happen until you're older. But that doesn't mean you can't prepare!"

"Prepare for what? Fighting against my soulmate in a war?" he scoffed.

Her lower lip wobbled. "Of course not! Maybe you can convince them not to fight! You can finally bring peace between us and them, Jon, think about it: You'll go down in history!"

Jon just looked at her skeptically and went back to winding her yarn.

When Jon was (he insisted) nearly a man grown, the King came to Winterfell and dragged half his family to the South. Sansa asked (begged, blackmailed) their father so that Jon came with them and Lord Stark eventually caved to her watery-eyes. It was part of her masterplan to have Jon travel as much as possible, but he didn't feel very excited-there would hardly be a Blackfyre hidden away at the Red Keep.(2)

They had been there three whole months before he got sloppy, a servant seeing a glimpse of his back as he changed. He waited for hours for the summons to the King, for the trouble he'd get into, but it never came and he thought perhaps he'd been lucky and the servant was a loyal Stark one and not a local one.

Sometimes in the quiet moments, Aegon stroked the mark on his chest for comfort, to prove to himself that everything he'd done would be worth it. He had the shape of it memorized and would go up and down, over the wings, around the head, thinking about the person who was meant for him. All he knew was their age and he longed for any shred of information.

Varys saw him, one day, and watched him with steady eyes. "Would you like to know about him?"

Aegon startled, nearly falling out of his seat as the words registered. "_Him_?"

"Your soulmate."

"...You know?" His eyes narrowed. "You've known and you haven't told me?"

"I thought it best you not be distracted. He's a long way away, now."

That made him frown harder. "Back in Essos?"

"Oh, no. In the North." Varys moved closer, a soft smile dancing across his features. "I have only known for a few years time, I saw him in the Red Keep just before the Usurper's death."

"And he was a Northman?"

"Technically, I suppose. He has the look of one, thankfully, and was raised there."

"Thankfully?" Aegon pondered that. "Why thankfully?"

"Because if he'd had the look of his father, he would have most likely been killed by now."

His hands found his mark again-a dragon. A dragon for a mark and a look that would have been dangerous, and a Northern mother.

"It's...Lady Lyanna she had..."

"A son."

_That_ was what Jon suspected, Aegon realized. It all made so much sense.

"Tell me more," he ordered, leaning towards him. "Tell me everything."

Varys gave him an indulgent smile and began.

Jon had barely made it back North alive, had fought wars and battles, had lost friends and gained enemies. He, and Sansa along with him, had too many scars to count-on their bodies, on their souls. They hadn't been pleasant people, he knew, they'd needed to be wolves to survive. To survive King's Landing and escape. To survive the Vale and escape. To win back Winterfell and destroy every last remnant of House Bolton.

Every few months, Jon would desperately ask Sansa to check his mark-to make sure he hadn't become some new person, someone who wouldn't have a soulmate. It never changed. If anything, she insisted, it had grown larger.

He didn't know what sort of person his soulmate must be, if the current Jon was their match. He almost didn't want to meet them, after everything he'd been through.

Sansa and he both agreed they didn't want to leave the North for a very, very long time. Even if it meant Jon would never meet his match, he didn't care.

But then, inevitably, the summons came for the Lady of Winterfell or a representative to go to King's Landing and bend the knee to a new King and they both realized what that meant.

"He's a pretender," Sansa gasped, running her finger over the Targaryen seal.

"He won by conquest." Jon flushed as he realized he was defending his possible soulmate just to defend him. "Same as Robert did."

She wavered, biting at her chapped lip. "Do you think anyone else even realizes?"

"You know what they're like in the South," Jon scoffed, "do you think they even care?"

Shaking her head, Sansa handed the scroll back to him and glared down at her desk. "You'll go as my representative. Lord Protector of the North."

"They're not going to let us stay independent, they didn't even call you Queen."

"I know. I guess...I guess Warden of the North, if they insist. We can't afford another war, not with Winter here. And..."

"Sansa...you don't have to bend the knee to this Southron king just because he might be my soulmate."

Sansa grabbed his hand, squeezing it. "Jon. If he's your soulmate, he's _our family_. And even if he is a-a you-know-what, I'll support him if you wish to be with him."

He was nervous about what this man who might be his soulmate was like, about what he'd do if this man _wasn't_ his soulmate, but he eventually agreed. The South would need some reply, sending him would have to be good enough. There was no way he'd let Sansa go back there again.

The herald announced the newcomer using the titles given by him, as opposed to the ones that many might think more proper. Jon of House Stark, Lord Protector of the North, Prince of Winter, the White Wolf, representative of the Queen in the North.

He looked every inch the Northman...at first. As Aegon studied him, he saw hints of something else-too delicate, too refined to be Northern.

His brother-whose real name, Varys said, would have been Aemon if their father had named him-was beautiful. With a bit more refinement, some lessons to polish away that Northern accent, Aegon thought he'd make a perfect husband to a King.

They said very little, though, during court, Aegon instead inviting him to a private dinner later that night. Aemon was nervous, but he did well not to show it, and Aegon knew whatever his mark was it must have been very obvious who it belonged to.

"All my life," he began, after the servants had set down the food and left them alone, "I didn't know how it was possible a Targaryen of the right age could exist. I thought it must be a dragonseed who was my soulmate. Or a distant relative of a long dead princess."

Aemon was staring at him in shock. "What?"

He frowned, going over what he had said, wondering what could have been so surprising about it. "Because no one knew you'd been born?" he prompted, cautiously.

"No, you...you called me a Targaryen."

Aegon stared at him, remembering some of the information that Varys had said with a sinking feeling. "...You didn't know."

"I can't be. There-there weren't any female Targaryens anywhere near my father, he-"

"Was not your sire. Not the man who helped make you." Aegon knew to be delicate at this, remembered his own pain at finding out Jon wasn't actually his father. "He was your uncle. Your mother was Lyanna Stark. Your birth father was Rhaegar Targaryen."

Aemon was breathing hard, fine tremors going through his hands. "And you're...you're okay with that?"

"Why wouldn't I be? We're blood of the dragon."

He was shaking his head at Aegon, eyes wide. "I meant...I thought...Targaryens and Blackfyres have been enemies for ages, shouldn't you hate me?"

Aegon suddenly thought he knew even better how Aemon must be feeling at this moment. "Blackfyre?"

***  
Jon stared at the King for a full minute, neither of them saying anything more, and then, softly, he began to laugh. Harder, harder, until he felt on the edge of hysteria and only just noticed Aegon joining in.

When he finally regained control, he stood up, thoughtlessly stripping out of the layers covering his torso before turning around and showing off the feral black dragon that had devoured more and more of his skin as he grew and changed.

Aegon came towards him, hands tracing the mark, and they both let out a breathy moan as the bond between them sparked at the contact. He came around Jon, keeping a hand against his back, and unlaced his top to show the beginnings of a red dragon over his chest. Reaching out, Jon touched it back, completing the circle.

For a moment, it was just the two of them, alone in the universe. He couldn't remember ever feeling so complete, so welcome.

And then they snapped back to reality, swaying against each other. The bond, weak and young as it was, seeped turmoil from both sides.

"I grew up," Jon muttered, resting his forehead against Aegon's shoulder, "thinking there'd be some great war. Some unknown Blackfyre coming out of nowhere, trying to take the Iron Throne. But here you are. You didn't start the wars. You didn't ravage the kingdoms."

"I didn't. I won't. This is-I didn't-I thought I was a Targaryen," grief cracked through his voice, through the bond, "I thought I was true. And I was taught to love this land, to want to help and guide its peoples. I didn't think I was only a conqueror. I thought I'd be setting things back to rights."

Jon looked up, meeting Aegon's eyes, and raised his eyebrows. "Didn't you? If I'm...if _I'm_ the Targaryen, wouldn't you say this is doing exactly what you thought you'd do?"

Aegon laughed again, a happier sound this time, and hugged Aemon to him more fiercely. His soulmate, _his soulmate_, and he wasn't wrong. He'd torn apart Aegon's entire worldview, but the very fact they were mates proved everything he'd done had been the same, just...skewed.

"You truly don't mind? A Blackfyre on your ancestral throne?"

"Remember how I only just learned it _was_ my ancestral throne? But...no. I've had a long time to come to terms with this, I always knew what you'd be a black dragon"

Leaning down, Aegon caught his lips in his, kissing gently just to kiss. One kiss became two, became holding each other on the settee, food long forgotten, and mouths locked in battle.

It wasn't until much later that they spoke again, contentment thrumming through their bond, Aegon stroking Aemon's bare back.

"So..." Aemon began, in a tone that was perfectly neutral but betrayed by what Aegon felt from him, "about Northern independence..."

* * *

(1) Not really getting into it here, but I figure that soulmarks on bastards probably make people consider them in a better light than bastards generally are (if the gods frowned on all bastards, why would they give one a mark?)  
(2) Lol I couldn't resist, since I'm going with Blackfyre!fAegon it's Blackfyre!Varys, too.


End file.
